Small medium, large headache
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: An idea that span out of "Rincewind and the Redskins". To a psychic medium, attracting a Red Indian spirit guide is like getting David Beckham to play for your pub team. But sage, wise and kindly? You can get the wrong sort of Indian... stars Mrs Cake.
1. The Spirit Guide

_**Just another day on the streets of Ankh-Morpork…**_

The woman strode busily down the street, muttering to herself. Under the large hat she habitually wore, she looked like a self-propelled fruit salad moving at shoulder height for averagely sized people.

_I tole her….. there was going to be trouble! But she wouldn't be tole…._

It was interesting how often people stepped politely out of her way, flattening themselves against handy walls in some extreme cases, as if possessed of some precognitive sense of their own that told them blocking her way or impeding her progress was going to mean _trouble_.

These days, Evadne Cake hardly needed to switch her own precognition on to assure her of event-free mobility in the city of Ankh-Morpork. She was getting to be too well known for that.

_Silly, silly, woman… makes contact once and thinks she's an experienced medium… there's none so dangerous as them who thinks they knows it all…_

Mrs Cake was on a mission. So intent was she on her destination that she walked right past the two muggers in the alley and didn't notice them. However, they noticed her: the more experienced of the two gave his associate a series of frightened, emphatic, headshakes, and they too stood politely aside to let her pass.

_Last time I tried to warn the wizards… stuck-up buggers never listened… _

She turned into Pseudopolis Yard and marched up to the reception desk, heedless of the queue, and banged on the woodwork with the handle of her umbrella for attention.

Sergeant Fred Colon looked up, then down a little, and groaned. He recognised trouble when he saw it.

"Mrs Cake" he said, as unconcernedly as he could manage, cursing the rota that had made him Duty Sergeant at this place and time. "How may the Watch assist you?"

"There's going to be trouble, sergeant!" she said, glaring up at him and challenging his to disbelieve her.

"In what way, Mrs Cake?" Colon asked.

"You've got to get people over to Elm Street. Now. When I turned me precognition on earlier, I seen big trouble. That stupid stuck-up Daphne Moleclencher, she fancies herself as a psychic medium, right? Well, she's going to channel more than she's bargained for, and it ain't pretty. She needs stoppin'!"

Colon sighed. This was what Sam meant about letting magic, of any kind, into Watch business. How the heck could the Watch stop a crime that hadn't happened yet and was only going to happen on the say-so of a daft old woman who shuffled a glass around a table?

_Well, yes_, said Fred Colon's inner policeman. _But this old biddy has a reputation for being right on the button. And if she thinks there's going to be trouble, I'd better listen. _

He pressed the discreet bell for "assistance needed", and said

"Please begin, mrs Cake".

______________________________________--

Within five minutes, Captain Carrot had turned up at the desk, and had also listened to the story with an expression of grave concern.

"667 Elm Street, you say, Mrs Cake? Where a…_psychic séance_…is about to begin? "

"That's what I said, Mr Carrot!" she replied, firmly. "You got to get people there and stop it. Arrest the bloody stupid woman afore she causes damage!"

Carrot sighed.

"It's not as simple as that, Mrs Cake" he said. "As you yourself know, holding a psychic séance is not illegal in Ankh Morpork, so no crime has been or will be committed. I can't go out arresting… Mrs Moleclencher… with no grounds to do so. Nor a group of people lawfully convening to, as you put it, Lift the Veil for a glimpse of the Beyond. I perfectly realise you allege that they're about to provoke a major supernatural disturbance, but the Watch cannot step in unless or until the said _major supernatural disturbance_ becomes manifest."

Mrs Cake looked at him, coldly.

"And that's it, is it?"

"No, we can send a patrol out there to monitor the situation."

Carrot turned to Colon.

"Make it Constable Dorfl and two trolls, would you?"

"Right away, sir" Colon said.

"And send a message up to the University. A suspected Code Twenty-Three. Assistance requested."

There were quite a few Watchmen in the public area of the Yard. All of them stopped at the mention of a code 23. This is not one a watchman likes to hear, as its meaning covers _Things with Tentacles, Spiritual Manifestations of the Hostile Kind, Incursions From the Dungeon Dimensions, Tentacles, Elf-Attack, Possible Rending of the Fabric of Reality, Tentacles, and Manifestation of Cththonic Horrors Of Which Man Should Wot Not._ Code 23 was invoked only rarely, but in the past, it had involved events such as fifty-feet women turning into chthonic multi-tentacled monstrosities, and the grim aftermath of Mr Hong's opening night at the fish shop on Dagon Street.

Accordingly, quite a lot of watchmen found other things to do, before being co-opted into a Squad.

"Get everyone you can, Fred, and get them to bring the crowd-control barriers and the black and yellow tape. We'll need to cordon the area off to make it easier for Mr Ridcully and his operatives."

Carrot paused. A slightly built middle-aged man in a black suit and bowler hat stood in front of him. He tipped the hat.

"Patrician's compliments, Captain. Lord Vetinari is desirous of a report as to how you intend to get the undesirable psychic intrusion at number 667 Elm Street under control."

"Well…. you can see it all around you. Please inform His Lordship that we're sealing the area off and we have requested assistance from Arch-chancellor Ridcully. Oh, and from Mrs Cake, of course."

"Very good, captain. If I were you I'd get over there as soon as. Things are developing." said the Dark Clerk.

"I've got a wagon outside, sir." Colon said.

"Let's go!" Carrot decided, and led the way, Mrs Cake determinedly tagging on.

______________________________________--

"Are we all here? Good. Then we may begin." Mrs Daphne Moleclencher began. She ran through everything in her mind, ticking items off. Circular table. All sitters holding hands to best channel the force. A pan of sprouts set to simmer in the kitchen, occasionally sending its reassuring waft into the séance room. _She'd have to do something about the name, _she thought. "Daphne" was alright – a cut above the usual Doris, and beginning with the same letter "D" that was right and proper for a psychic medium. But "Moleclencher" needed some work. It didn't sound right.

Who was here.. oh yes, Mrs Cookham, looking for news from her last husband and hints as to her next one. Mr Pettigrew, the self-styled psychic researcher. Young miss Lewisham, who considered herself somewhat psychic and wanted to Develop. Bjorn Pettistrop, the Dwarf. Mr Milgram, the accountant.

Good, five sitters, at five dollars each to cover her expenses. Not that she was in it for the money, _of course_. Daphne genuinely believed in her psychic ability. Ever since Misqamacus had come to her in dreams, and explained that he wanted to be her Red Indian Spirit Guide. She had been delighted. Misqamacus had been the ideal, the epitome, of the race that _everyone_ knew was the most spiritually advanced on the disc. And in life, he'd been a powerful medicine-man, too! OK, maybe she shouldn't have boasted about it to Evadne Cake, as it really wasn't her fault, poor woman, that the only spirit guide she could attract was that drunken reprobate One-Man-Bucket. The right race, yes, but a witless drunk who'd fallen, dead drunk, under a laden cart, was nothing to boast about, in _her_ opinion.

_Her _spirit guide was a shaman, a medicine man, no doubt a wise and sagely kindly old man who had perfected his soul and his karma over a succession of earthly lives. She pictured him as a benign soul, a spirit of light and compassion, who, although he had no need to concern himself with this world any more, was out of the kindness and wisdom of his heart voluntarily returning in Spirit, to guide those further down the road of perfection than himself.

_And Misqamacus promised he'd introduce me to some real chiefs! _she exulted. _That's one in the eye for Evadne Cake. No wonder she went off with her nose in a sling muttering about no good coming of this._

"Are we ready to close the circle?" she asked, rather rhetorically. Her sitters clasped hands, as if in a well-practiced drill, and sat up expectantly. Daphne dimmed the oil-lamp to a faint flickering glow, casting the window, with its heavy-draped windows, into darkness. Deeper shadows condensed in the nooks and corners. Miss Lewisham shivered, somewhat theatrically. Daphne took her seat, clasped the free hand of Miss Lewisham to her right and Mr Milgram to her left, and begun.

_Is there anybody there?_

There was a faint rattling noise in the distance, faint and faraway, that grew nearer and resolved itself into the thrumming of drums.

_Is there anybody there? _

The Indian drums grew louder and nearer. Miss Lewisham thought she could hear, on the very verge of sound, chanting.

_Is there anybody there? I invite you now, kindly spirit, to use me and speak through me.._

Dahpne's voice abruptly deepened and coarsened.

"_**I am here! I, Misqamacus, master of manitous!"**__**1**__** (1)**_

Miss Lewisham looked over to her left, thinking _This is for real! _

Then she looked again and screamed. Unfortunately for her and everyone in that room, it was for real…

______________________________________-----

Carrot took control on the ground on Elm Street. Number 667 looked quiet enough, but a tiny little psychic node in his forebrain was twitching with a sense of foreboding.

"Fred, I want the barriers set up five doors down either side from 667. Put out an All Persons, Cheery. We need more Watchmen. Reg, Visit - knock on doors inside the cordon. Get the houses evacuated."

"Do you think it's a good idea sending Visit knocking on doors when we need people to answer them, sir?" Reg Shoe asked.

Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets gave his colleague a dark hurt look.

Carrot considered. "He'll have to do. It's an emergency. At the very least he might induce the householders to evacuate via the back door. It's been known. No leaflets, Visit, this is an emergency!"

"I've got an appropriate one about the Ungodly and Evil nature of psychic séances, sir…"

He dodged to avoid a slap from Mrs Cake.

"Sauce! I've attended more temples than you've had doors slammed in your face, young man!"

"Ah, but you only need ever attend _one,_ Mrs Cake…"

"_Knock on doors, Visit!"_

"Right away, sir!"

Very soon, other Watchmen ran up and were assigned to help with the evacuation. A stream of bewildered people was soon passing behind the dubious safety of the crowd-control barriers, where other citizens were massing to watch the street theatre.

"Nothing's happening yet! I'm _bored_, mummy!" protested a small child, demonstrating that small children do not always have an innocent untutored innate psychic ability, before the educatative process and relentless onset of adulthood starts to knock it out of them. It received a clip round the ear from Mummy.

"All these Watchmen and the barriers. They wouldn't lay this on for nothing, would they?" snapped Mummy. "Now shut up and wait!"

"Sergeant Angua!" a familiar voice called. "What is happening, please?" It had spoken in Überwaldean. She turned and saw Otto Chriek, who had secured a front-row space for himself and his equipment by virtue of the fact nobody wants to stand too near a Vampire.

"We don't know yet. We've had a Code _drei-und-zwanzig_ reported from a reliable informant. We're waiting for wizards to advise us."

Otto whistled.

"_drei-und-zwanzig, _hein? That has to do with Manifestations, yes?"

"Yes." Angua said. For some unaccountable reason she felt slightly dizzy, as if something unwholesome were nearby. Otto made an "_I have just realised_!" face and said, with concern

"Do not stand too close to me, Sergeant. The reason is that I am experimenting with a true camera, which does away with demons and imps. It relies for its capture of image on the reaction of light with silver nitrate. You would find it toxic, I think."

"_It'll never catch on, guv'nor!" _said a muffled little voice from inside a more conventional iconograph. Otto negligently slapped it. _"Besides, it only does black and white! We do colour!"_

"I apologise. For some reason the picture-demons are a little bit skittish today. I don't know what's getting into them, I really don't."

_"The threat of redundancy, guv'nor! We'll start a union!"_

Otto slapped the box again.

"Behave, if you please!"

"Thanks for telling me" Angua said, gratefully, and edged away, feeling her strength return. Now she knew why there was no such thing as a werewolf iconographer. Silver nitrate film would have much the same effect on her as flash light on Otto.

Meanwhile, Mrs Cake appeared to be having a conversation with thin air.

"You there, Bucket? Bucket?"

"_What do you want_?" a whispered disembodied voice spoke in her ear, as if the owner was trying not to attract attention.

"You alone on the Astral Plane? What do you see?"

"_It's bloody dangerous up here right now!" _Bucket half-whispered, half-hissed. _"I'm going to find me a new happy hunting ground if this carries on!"_

"So you're not alone?" Carrot asked. Mrs Cake relayed the message.

"_Nnngggh" _said Bucket. There was a dead silence for a while.

"_That was close!" _Bucket exhaled. _"Luckily, they ain't looking for me. They're hanging around a doorway some silly sod's about to open. You've got to stop them, Mrs Cake, Mr Policeman!"_

"Who, exactly?" Carrot and Mrs Cake asked together.

"_Other Indians. Real bastards. Real evil bastards. We don't say their name out loud, like you people and elves, you know? These Indians could give nasty lessons to elves!"_

Carrot and Mrs Cake looked at each other, necessitating her looking a long way up and he looking a long way down.

"Like elves, you say?" Carrot asked, touching his breastplate just to make sure.

"_oh, shit, the doorway's opening! Brace yourselves!"_

Bucket paused a second._ "They're all through. Right. You know Red Indians have a reputation for being noble and wise and psychically advanced? That's why so many of us get to be spirit guides?"_

"Yes!" said Mrs Cake, who still, all these years later, wondered why she'd drawn Bucket.

"_These are the other sort. There's a heap big powerful medicine man called Misqamacus, right? Evil bastard. Hates white men. Mind you, he hates Howondaland blacks as well, and can't stand brown-skinned Klatchians, and I bet if he ever met any Agateans he'd hate them too. Fair-minded evil bastard, I suppose. But heap powerful. "_

"Get to the bloody point, Bucket!" she requested

_And them buggers with him. They're Apache, Mrs Cake! Apaches! The one race Elves point at and say "Ooh, _they're_ nasty!" Apaches!"_

And then the screaming started.

___________________________________________--

Daphne Moleclencher stood up. Only she wasn't Daphne Moleclencher any more. Her face and figure had subtly altered and were now those of a copper-skinned Indian wearing buckskins and a crudely painted head-mask. The design on the mask was crudely humanoid, in that it had eye-holes, a nose and a mouth, but two deer-horns protruded in the correct places. The overall effect was of something sinister and evil, and the glinting of malevolent eyes from inside the mask was just a courtesy detail.

Breaking the grip of Mr Milgram, the apparition seized Miss Lewisham by both hands and hauled her upright. Swinging her against the wall, it laughed, the echoes of the laughter bouncing around inside the mask as he hauled her hands up over her head. As Mr Milgram tried to intervene, the creature gestured, and unseen force slammed him against the other wall.

Ghostly cords appeared, binding themselves around Ethylene Lewisham's wrists and tugging her further up, until her feet were barely touching the floor.

"**Free! And out of the Netherworld! Come, brothers. The two men here are yours! Take them!"**

As Misqamacus turned his attention to Mrs Cookham, binding her to the wall in the same way he'd bound Miss Lewisham, the two men stiffened and convulsed. Mr Pettigrew had almost made it to the door; but a force pulled him back. The two tied women watched in horror as Mr Pettigrew and Mr Milgram _changed_. Their features flowed and altered. Their chests expanded and became absurdly wide for their bodies. Their legs bowed slightly. Their faces became wide and flat and copper-coloured and their hair long lank and black. Their clothes changed to a motley of buckskin and homespun. Both carried cruel knives in their waist-sashes.

"**Welcome, Golathlé! Welcome, Dasoda-hae! Together we will fight and overcome the **_**pinda-lickoyhe**_** and return to our ancestral lands!"**

"**It is good, Misquamacus. Good to be in flesh again and out of the netherworld!" **said the one called Golathlé. The one called Dasoda-hae merely nodded. He was an Apache of few words.

The two women bound by magic to the wall started screaming. The sixth in the room, who had escaped detection, hid under the draped table and patted his axe, waiting for the moment…

Dasoda-hae drew his knife, leered, and moved over to the bound women. He tickled mrs Cookham under the chin with it. Terrified, she registered real steel. _Sharp_ steel. With nothing ectoplasmic or ephemeral about it.

Misqamacus intervened.

**"Mangas Coloradas. I know you want to test your old skills and enjoy yourself. Soon, my friend. But not here. These two are part of the price for our crossing over. Our elder brothers and sisters, the Wendigo, require a sacrifice as their payment for holding the door open for them."**

Misqamacus turned to the women, his eyes glittering manically.

**"Your... _Daphne_... was a useful tool. She had some small power, and it served to open the doorway from this world, just as I was opening it from the Netherworld. I find it amusing she considered we of the People to be pacifist and spiritually advanced and keen to serve mankind. Her naivity served us well. "**

He waved a hand towards the two grinning Apaches.

**"I promised to show her Indian chiefs. I kept my word. The Yawner here, and Mangas Coloradas, were in life great chiefs of the People. Did you know how Mangas got his name? No? Many years ago, explorers from your lands of Toledo and Brindisi were, ah, _guests _of the Apache nation. Almost the last words of your Ponce de Toleda, before he unfortunately expired, were a remark on the way Dasoda-hae's sleeves were _coloured _up to the shoulder. Mangas Coloradas, you see. Coloured Sleeves found he liked the sound of the name. The colour in question was quite a bright _roja. To the shoulders."_**

The women continued screaming, eyes wide in terror. The invisible drums continued to pound and the chanting was now quite audible.

_T'kela la! T'kela la! Cthulu F'tha'gn! Tkela la!_

**"The Wendigo (2) are coming, lady. Do you not hear them?** **They gave me the power, if I would make them a doorway. And they require placating once they arrive in this world. No, I did not save you from Red Sleeves out of kindness..."**

________________________________________----

**(1) Misquamacus** appears as a character in British supernatural fiction writer Graham Masterton's novels. Look up _**The Manitou **_and _**The return of the Manitou**_ in which this Indian shaman is a central character.

**(2)** the **Wendigo** is a cruel and misshapen Indian spirit, hostile and inimical to mankind. H.P. Lovecraft incorporated them into the Cthulu mythos, but did not invent them. Their description is suspiciously close to the way terry Pratchett describes the Things of the Dungeon Dimensions. Yes, this is a plot giveaway.


	2. Enter the Wizards

_**Small medium, large headache c2**_

Elm Street was unnaturally quiet. The citizenry, awaiting in patient expectation of street theatre, were not being entirely disappointed: muffled, but hysterical, female screaming was coming out of number 667. Carrot used his complement of Watchmen to keep the crowds well behind the barriers, while they craned their necks expectantly and cheerfully speculated on the reasons for the screaming. Carrot, Angua and Cheery Littlebottom had adopted a command position as prudently near to the door of no 667 as they could get, where Mrs Cake had joined them with the unseen but clearly heard presence of One-Man-Bucket.

"It's startin'.'" she said, emphatically. "And it's going to get worse."

"_You're telling me, mrs Cake. They've got hostages in there. I've got a pretty good idea _**why **_them women are screaming!"_

Carrot frowned. Again he considered a frontal attack. But this was magic. Where were they? _Ah._ A loud harrumphing noise was getting closer, accompanied by a collection of modulated whinges and mutterings. And an…

"Ook ook ook!"

The Librarian, wearing his Special Constabulary badge around his neck, saluted in a flaccid elongated sort of way, and insistently offered Carrot a book.

"What have you brought me? Oh, I say. _**Myths, Legends And Folklore Of The Howondalandian Indians**_, by Birdwhistle. And bookmarked…"

Carrot let the book fall open on _Apache Legends_, and nodded. He knew the Librarian: there'd be a good reason for that. But first he had to brief Ridcully and the faculty, who were crowding round, staffs clenced in right hands in an unmistakeable _we-are-going-to-kick-some- righteous-tentacle _manner.

"Code Twenty-Three, you say, Carrot?" Arch-chancellor Ridcully asked, nodding in the direction of the incoherent screaming.

"Something's broken in from Outside, sir. There are up to six hostages in that house, as far as we can tell. Whatever's in there doesn't seem at home to negociation."

"Whatever it is, sir, it's going off the scale!" Ponder Stibbons exclaimed, looking up from his instruments. "The thaumometers are going crazy! I've never seen force so strong before!"

Ridcully glanced down at the madly swinging needle that was well into the DANGER! Area.

"Happily for _you_, lad, I have!" he said, contentedly. He looked down in the direction of the meaningful cough from somewhere around his navel.

"You people goin' to ignore me like you did last time? Wouldn't surprise me." said Mrs Cake.

Ridcully grinned, weakly.

"And look what happened when we did! Incidentally, afternoon, Mr Shoe! Getting' like old times round here all of a sudden! _DEAN, STOP WAVIN' YOUR BLOODY STAFF AROUND LIKE THAT, SOMEBODY COULD GET HURT!"_

"Well, _I_ vote we go in with all staffs blazing! There are women in danger in there!" the Dean said, eyes gleaming at the prospect of some serious magical smiting.

"Yes, Dean. There _are_. And I don't want them to be in any _more_ danger, you follow? I want to know what we're up against before I deploy. Just cover the damn' place, men. Safety catches ON, for now!"

Mrs Cake coughed again. Ridcully considered.

"Perhaps you and that Red Indian chappie of yours could fill me in while we're waitin'? I'd be obliged. You're the woman on the spot, after all."

Mollified, Mrs Cake, with the assistance of One-Man-Bucket, summed up what was known for the wizards. Ridcully nodded.

"So some damn Indian witch-doctor and a couple of his pals have come back from the dead, for whatever reason, they've worked up a huge magical potential to back up whatever they plan to do, and we've got to stop 'em?"

He rubbed his hands together and grinned.

"Gentlemen! There's evidently something strange in the neighbourhood and _we_ have been called to deal with it!"

"It's very weird, sir. And from the readings, it doesn't look good at all" Stibbons said, cautiously.

"I'm not afraid of any damn ghosts!" the Dean pouted.

"Let's just wait and see what comes through that door, you men!" Ridcully said, briskly. He paused, and looked uncharacteristically puzzled for a moment. "You know, you men, just for a moment there..." Then he shook his head and got back to business.

"Right, you fellows! We know these are ghosts. Therefore they are undead. Therefore we use magic _sparingly_ and with _caution_. Captain Carrot, if that book can tell you what kills Red Indian undead, I'll be delighted to hear it! For now, we break out the usual nonsense that works on _our_ undead, silver, garlic, pointed stakes, lemons, poppyseeds, as chances are _something_'s bound to work. If it comes to a magical duel with a bloody witch-doctor, I'll take first go, and nobody else fire, d'you hear? I do _not_ want rogue spells interactin' with each other and flyin' all over the shop, as his lordship can get quite sarcastic about that sort of thing blastin' big lumps out of his City!"

"It's only a native witch-doctor, Mustrum" the Dean sulked. "No match at all for civilized magic!"

"_Only,_ Dean? _Only_? Native magic might not be sophisticated, but it's bloody strong! In the Zulu War, we sent a contingent of wizards out with the expeditionary force. They made the mistake of underestimatin' Zulu witch-finders on their own turf! And they're still damn' strong today!" **(1)**

Ridcully nodded, and fanned the wizards out into an open semi-circle, staffs at the ready, facing the front of number 667. Face pale but resolute, Ponder Stibbons pocketed the thaumometer, lifted the staff he'd hardly ever carried since graduation, feeling the unfamiliar weight in his hands and the sensation of a potent weapon fully charged with magic, and went to join them. Ridcully blocked him.

"What d'you think you're doin', lad?"

"Well, sir, taking my place…"

Ridcully shook his head.

"Not _you_, lad. This is potentially very dangerous. This is a sort of wizardin' you're not trained for, d'you hear? Look, I know what you do down the H.E.M. is pretty bloody dangerous in its way, and I wouldn't have a bloody clue where to start. You're in the same position here. This is the sort of old-school wizardin' we all trained in, we all know the risks, and we're all old...well, _mature_ fellows. Here, you're just raw meat. And _you_ have a future. Look, go and join Captain Carrot. Be, I don't know, liaison with the Watch, or somethin'. And if by this time tomorrow the Dean or the Wrangler are Archchancellor, rein 'em in, you understand?"

Ponder's eyes opened wide. He looked around. Was that a suspicion of black shroud and scythe over there…

"Oh, He's here for _someone_, lad. Just don't know who, yet. And this sort of magic is _dangerous_. There's no guarantee it's the bad lad He'll be wrappin' up when the dust settles. But we knew the risk when we picked up our first copy of Woddeley's!"

Ridcully steeled himself. "Me will's lodged with Slant. I've mentioned you, lad. But what are you waitin' for, get over there and work with young Carrot!"

Ponder saluted, and walked off. There was nothing to say, really.

"We've done all we can." Carrot said, decisively. "Now we should leave it to the skilled professionals, and move out of the firing line."

The Watch officers, Mrs Cake and Ponder walked down the street to the barricades. Carrot lifted the book to his eyes again. He was able to read for a few minutes, his eyes revealing an understanding of exactly _why_ the Librarian had chosen this book.

And then the world exploded.

* * *

**(1) **The Kwa'Zulu Embassy used native magic to exchange diplomatic messages with the homeland. Vetinari had made it clear that the wizards had a patriotic duty to the City to use counter-magic to intercept and decipher such diplomatic communications. For some time an undeclared cold war had been going on between Unseen University and those foreign embassies whose magicians, witch-doctors, shamen, babiushkas and jujumen were part of the Embassy contingent. Wizards such as Pincher Chapman and Peter Wainwright **(2)** were enthusiastic magical spies for the City and relished this sort of surveillance work.

**(2)** OK then: on Roundworld, Chapman Pincher is a former spy, a writer and commentator on British Intelligence and the Cold War as fought between contending sets of spies of all nationalities. It is suspected that MI5 and MI6 deliberately use him as a PR agent and feed him advantageous material to (deniably) put in the public domain. Peter Wright is or was a completely loopy ex-spy of a paranoid bent, who, angry at being forcibly retired on a far smaller pension than he expected, wrote a candid account of life in the paranoid world of diplomatic espionage, revealing far more about British Intelligence than British Intelligence was comfortable with. His accounts of bugging and breaking into foreign embassies in London , whilst preventing Russia and America from doing the same to us, was published everywhere in the world but in Britain, and presents a picture of MI6 as a deeply paranoid right-wing reactionary organisation, to whom anyone to the political Left of Margaret Thatcher was a potential, if not an actual, traitor and comsymp. I'm sure on the Disc they would make a fine pair of loopy right-wing counter-intelligence wizards...


	3. The Walker and the North Wind

_**Small medium, large headache c3**_

The heat and oppressive heaviness of the air grew ever stronger inside number 667 Elm Street.

The two revived Apache war chiefs, Golathlé and Dasoda-Hae, stood with sweat trickling down their faces and bodies, bodies which had formerly belonged to an accountant caslled Mr Milgram, and a self-styled psychic investigator called Mr Pettigrew, who was now studying all the psychic phenomena he could ever have hoped to avoid at rather close quarters. To them, this was like the sweat lodge, reviving and cleansing.

Somewhere, Milgram and Pettigrew were still alive, in essence: in all probability it wasn't a particularly nice somewhere, and their respective psychic essences were in all probability screaming with fear and pain and terror.

Their bodies now resonated to the extraordinarily powerful morphic fields of long-dead Apache chiefs, men who in life had all the primitive barbarian vigour of Cohen the Barbarian and none of his self-control or fundamental restraint. The old morphic fields hadn't stood a hope in hell of maintaining Pettigrew or Milgram's shape and likenesses: the borrowed bodies had obediently morphed into forms more pleasing to their new owners, and a timebomb was ticking. For a fundamentally thin and weedy accountant to be transformed into a beefy, broad-chested and rather squat Apache chief, the transformation required more power or energy than the original body could comfortably provide for very long. In short, Pettigrew and Milgram's bodies were dying, and within a few days the spirits occupying them would need to look for new hosts.

The women, young Ethylene Lewisham and mrs Agnes Cookham, hung feebly in their bonds, now beyond fear, soaked in sweat and traumatized into silence.

And the Indian witch-doctor Misquamacus, similarly occupying and burning up the body of the medium Daphne Moleclencher, danced and capered around the room, to the sound of the unseen drummers pounding out a heart-beat- fast tempo, to the chant of

_**T'kela la! T'kela la! Cthulu F'tha'gn! T'kela la!**_

"_They come!" _he howled.

_The Wendigo! Our elder brothers and sisters! They are here!"_

One wall of the séance room had become a glowing, rippling, silver screen, like mercury twisted through ninety degrees. And now things were probing through it, like dark creatures bred in a filthy pit seeking to break out of their placental sacks. Long spindly protuberances that might have been legs, that might have been feelers, that might have been jaws, probed and prodded and eventually ripped through the mercury. The stench of carrion flesh accompanied them. Agnes Cookham vomited.

Misquamacus saw this and laughed.

"We welcome you, older brothers! We greet you, older sisters! A sacrifice is arranged for thee…"

He indicated the two hanging women with his pointing bone.

"Gather your strength!"

Two of the things had broken through, at present the size of Shetland ponies and looking like something that might have had woodlouse in its ancestry. But they were perceptibly growing, and stood there, trembling as if newborn, gaining their strength. A third was breaking through the quicksilver barrier.

Then Misquamacus did an unexpected thing. He reached into a leather bag at his waist and threw a handful of dust and plant heads at the screen. It exploded into cold flame, fire that gave no heat, trapping the thing that was trying to get through. It screamed and writhed in the cold fire.

"Misquamacus?" asked the Yawner, confused.

"It was necessary! We have returned to rule our world again, do you remember? Do you want them ALL coming through the door? Now we run! These two and the white man will occupy each others' attention while we slip away! There is great magic near here, I feel it!"

The three of them raced for the front door.

_They will see us in different shapes to these, _were the last words the women heard of the Indian magic-man.

Under the table, the dwarf Bjorn Pettistrop looked cautiously through a gap in the curtain Daphne Moleclencher had prudishly mounted there to cover its legs.**(1)** He gripped his axe tighter, and waited for the time…

Outside in the street, a noise arose, part cheer and part appreciation of good street theatre. The door of Number 667 had opened, and a woman and two men were seen to run into the street, pause, and take stock of their surroundings.

They looked just like Daphne Moleclencher, Stanley Pettigrew and Joseph Milgram.

_Hold your fire!" _Ridcully bellowed at his wizards. His eyes narrowed. Something was wrong here, if only he could just see past what was apparently there…

The trio made a decision, and started to run up Elm Street, in the direction of the docks. A Watchman ran towards them.

"Madam! Do you need assistance?" he asked, innocently, wondering why the woman was impatiently waving him off.

Mrs Cake tugged insistently at Ridcully's robes.

"That ain't Daphne!" she shouted. "Well, it is and it isn't. It's something that's took her over!"

_Mrs Cake! Mr Wizard! They're the bloody Apaches! Can't you see? They're only using those shapes! _yelled the Indian One-Man Bucket from the psychic plane.

* * *

Watch constable Ernie Meadows was only doing as he'd been taught, in dealing with helping confused victims of hostage-taking, massacres, natural disasters, and so on. It was a great pity for him that Watch training did not, as a rule, cover supernatural disasters.

Racing to offer assistance and a nice warm blanket to survivors of whatever had been going on in there, he was consternated (although very briefly) when the confused middle-aged lady who he was trying to wrap in a blanket lashed out with such force he was flung into the air and impacted several yards up the side of a building thirty feet away. His last conscious thought was "that's very strange" , as his body flopped down and came to rest on hard unyielding cobblestones, to a general "_Oooooh…_" from the crowd.

ERNEST MEADOWS?

"Yes?"

Ernie sat up and rubbed his head. Everything felt strange.

A black-clad figure stood in front of him.

AREN'T YOU GLAD YOU WERE IN AN OCCUPATION WITH A BURIAL CLUB AND A WIDOWS AND ORPHANS' FUND?

"What happened to me?"

A POWERFUL RED INDIAN SORCERER HAS RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE. HE IS INTENT ON RETURNING TO HOWONDALAND TO GATHER HIS TRIBE AND RESTORE THE GREATNESS OF THE APACHE PEOPLE.

"And she killed me?"

**HE.** ALTHOUGH THAT IS NOT STRICTLY ACCURATE. HE BEGAN MALE, BUT HAD TO SURRENDER CERTAIN... BODILY PARTS... AS TESTAMENT TO HIS PACT WITH THE DARK ENTITIES WHO GAVE HIM POWER. IT MAKES IT EASIER FOR HIM TO OCCUPY A FEMALE BODY. YOU WERE UNLUCKY ENOUGH TO BE THERE, I'M AFRAID. AND IN THE APACHE LANGUAGE, THE WORD FOR "_NOT-AN-APACHE_" IS COGNATE WITH WORDS LIKE "_TARGET", "VICTIM",_ AND "_KILL ON SIGHT_"

"Oh"

NOT A NICE PEOPLE, I'M AFRAID. NOW IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME…

Death turned and stalked off. The spirit of Ernest Meadows watched Carrot kneel by his corpse, then sadly shake his head and cover the body with the blanket he had been trying to offer to the strange woman. He sighed, and evaporated into his new world.

* * *

In using magic against Meadows, Misquamacus had inadvertently exposed himself to the wizards. He barely had time to throw up a shield against the converging power of half a dozen staffs; the impact threw him to his knees, but he recovered quickly, pointed his bone**(3),**and aimed an imprecation at Ridcully, who he judged to be the most powerful of the fat white men. Now it was Ridcully's time to throw out a last-ditch defensive spell, although the force of the magic thrown by the Indian sent him sprawling on his back. He was closely followed by Recent Runes and the Senior Wrangler, as the entity followed through its advantage with more magic. The Dean, hyped up with adrenaline, was cheerfully firing back, whooping "Take _that,_ injun!"

_Damn cowboy, _thought Ridcully, as he struggled back to consciousness.

Meanwhile, in the guise of Pettigrew and Milgram, the two Apache chiefs sought to blend in with the crowd and make it towards…. The words of Misquamacus appeared in their heads.

_Make for water. The docks. Big ships. Find one bound for Howondaland. I will join you presently. _

"Get them too!" shrieked Mrs Cake. "They're getting' away!""

The Dean, one of the old-time monsters of wizardry who required no encouragement to use a staff as the Gods intended it to be used, lined them up and fired. The crimson fire had no effect except to strip away whatever magic it was that enabled the two chiefs to be seen as Pettigrew and Milgram: in their place were two short, broad, muscular, copper-skinned Red Indians with lank black hair held back with hide bands.

Confused, exposed, the two ran for cover.

And then the front of no 667 erupted outwards in a shower of masonry, splintered wood, and broken glass. The crowd roared its approval. Then screamed with fear and revulsion as the first of the stinking, malformed, corpse-white, woodlouse-like creatures stumbled blinking into the light. It had grown to the size of a small elephant, and was still growing. Behind it, a second one was shambling into the light, shaking bricks and splintered windows off itself. Incredibly, a small determined body was on its back, hanging on for dear life with one hand, wielding an axe with the other, and shrieking

"_T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!!"_ with every impact.

The forward creature was immediately hit by powerful bursts of magic from the wizards' staffs, but despite being surrounded in a coruscating haze of eight-colour rainbow light, with billiard balls, doves, and Flags of all Nations being called into existence from the void, this had no perceptible effect. Indeed, the things seemed to be growing larger still.

_"Get them to stop!" Ponder S_tibbons screamed from the command post. An overworked thaumometer was pouring black smoke as he threw it away.

"Cease fire! Stop! Desist, you fellows!" Ridcully screamed, loudly.

"Why?" said the Dean, petulantly. "I'm enjoying this!"

"Because I'm the sodding Arch-chancellor, that's why!" Ridcully bellowed. "And besides, these are Things from the Dungeon Dimensions! They bloody well feed on magic! You're helping them grow bigger!"

"_T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!!"_ came the bellowing roar again. _"T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!!"_

"Fellows" Recent Runes quavered. "That isn't some… you know, eldrich summoning designed to bring more chthonic horrors from the void, is it?"

Ridcully was impressed. For the first time he could remember, somebody had attempted to use the word "chthonic" in everyday spoken discourse. He'd considered it a word safe for use only by highly experienced stunt-linguists.

"No!" Sergeant Littlebottom of the watch, said, aghast. "There's a dwarf up there on the back of one of those things! Look! And he's using he most terrible battle-cry of all…"

"Today is a good day for somebody else to die" translated Captain Carrot, suddenly pale.

He turned and beckoned he crowd, shouting in Dwarvish

"What are you waiting for? One of our people is in _trouble_ here! He's fighting the thing!"

To illustrate his point, he leapt forward, drawing his sword, and took a swing at an unearthly leg. The blade cut deep, drawing ichor. The creature reared and screamed, an oddly high-pitched noise.

Then, one by one, axe-bearing dwarves stepped forward. Without a word being spoken, they formed a closing circle around each beast, hemming it in, chopping and hewing at its legs.

"That was the tactic for fighting dragons in the old days" Carrot explained to Ridcully and the wizards. "Stay away from the fire, but prevent it from moving and turning, and give it no room to move."**(4)**

The tactic worked: the two monsters found themselves stuck in the middle of a horde of battle-frenzied Dwarfs, with no room to move. But Carrot and the wizards were watching a disturbing phenomena: for every leg hacked through , a new one appeared to be regenerating. Meanwhile, wounded or dazed dwarfs were being carefully assisted to the rear, although more were taking their places.

* * *

"They'll never win like this!" Carrot mused.

"I really don't know if there's anything else we can do, lad" Ridcully said, pushing his wizard's hat up and mopping his brow. "Those damn things thrive on magic."

A couple of senior Assassins had joined the throng, and were coolly discussing the practicalities of how you inhume a twenty-foot long carnivorous woodlouse that can regenerate itself.

"Lots of salt, maybe?" one inquired, as the mandibles of the thing swept up a screaming dwarf who was still wielding his axe.

"Works on slugs, kind of thing?" replied the other.

"Or maybe boiling water poured down the entrance to the nest?"

"You'd need a lot of boiling water!" the other one remarked, drily

"And I wouldn't like to live in a garden with that sort of nest!"

Cheery suddenly picked her ears up.

"I've got it!" she yelled. "Captain Carrot, can you promise me an amnesty? If things appear on the street that Mr Vimes doesn't want to see on the street?"

"Well, he _is _in Sto Helit for that Interpol conference…" Carrot mused.

"OK, Cheery. As acting Watch commander, I trust your judgement. Whatever you have in mind, use it and there'll be no comeback. Just this once, mind you!"

"Thank you, sir!"

Cheery ran off, grabbing a passing Dwarf and speaking quickly and rapidly to him. The Dwarf looked apprehensively at Carrot. Carrot nodded, reassuringly. He raced off with Cheery.

_So that's what she's got in mind…. _Carrot thought_. Clever. _

Meanwhile, the three Indians were considering their escape. Crowds were blocking Elm Street on both sides, whilst the Watch barriers were keeping the intervening space clear. They were currently disregarded, but it was clear this would not last for ever.

"This is a white man's city! We are useless here! " Dasoda-Hae, _Mangas Colorados_, complained to Misquamacus. "we must escape it."

"Perhaps, while they are distracted by the Wendigo, we can enter one of those houses and pass into a quieter place on the other side, where our steps will be unimpeded and our passage unseen?" said the Yawner.

Misquamacus leant on his bone, lost in thought. He was aware hat by breaking the agreement with the Wendigo that had allowed him and the chiefs to return to Earth, there could be no going back, and the revenge of the Wendigo, should he end up in their netherworld again, would be too terrible to contemplate. Yet he could not risk sharing the world with them: he knew hat sooner or later, they would renege on any agreement to leave the red man's hunting grounds alone. Should the paler-skinned, brown-skinned and black-skinned humans all be sacrificed to them, it was no great loss. In their time, all three skins, the brown, the paleskins, and black-skinned buffalo-men had tried to wrest from the Indian what was his: let them suffer. But the Indians were his people.

Meanwhile, the Dwarfs pressed in on their target. The rise and fall of their axes sent the echoes of chopping noises resounding around a hushed street. The high-pitched angry scream of the Wendigo, and the Dwarvish battlecries, punctuated his thought.

A new Dwarvish battlecry rent the air:

_Dzj'eronimo! Dzj'eronimo!_

The Yawner sat up and smiled. They were calling his name out there. That was.. gratifying.**(5)**

* * *

Meanwhile, Otto Chriek, like any photographer who has been in the presence of paranormal activity, was discovering how bloody frustratingly difficult it is to get good shots. All his imps seemed to have huddled themselves into terrified bundles inside the iconographs, and were resolutely refusing to unhuddle and do their job.

He voiced a spiky oath in Borogravian, stopped thumping the iconograph boxes in frustration, and realised there was nothing for it but the experimental silver nitrate film camera. _At least my salamanders do not appear to be affected. The sky has grown pleasingly dark as if a storm is in the promise. But I have never seen those anvil-shaped clouds before. _

"Mr Chriek?"

It was Carrot, walking towards him, but skimming his eyes over the pages of a book, looking for all the world like an actor learning his lines.

"How may I assist, Captain?"

"I have something to try which I believe may work. But it needs your assistance. When I call for you to do so, can you ignite every salamander you have, please? Try not to do it before I call you." Carrot paused. " You _do_ have your personal remedy handy?"

"How kind of you to ask, Captain. Yes, about my neck on a string, as alvays".

Carrot nodded.

"And… purely for the article in the Times, you understand. That book offers the secret of defeating these things?"

"I believe it does, Mr Chriek. I'm just off to fight their leader now."

"An entity six wizards could not defeat?"

"Ah. I'm not a wizard. Just a man who walks."

Carrot tipped his hat to Otto, and walked away, in the direction of Misquamacus.

He cupped his hands and called

"Misquamacus, a.k.a. the so-called Master of Manitous, a.k.a. the North Wind, you are under arrest along with your co-conspirators, identity currently unknown, for conspiracy to import banned supernatural entities from the Dungeon Dimensions with intent to endanger life and property. You are also charged with the murder of Watch Lance-Constable Ernest Meadows and criminal damage to number six hundred and sixty-seven Elm Street, Ankh-Morpork. Please give yourself up and come quietly!"

* * *

Cheery put the word out on the Dwarf bush telegraph as to what was needed. and assured her people that the devices she required were subject to temporary amnesty by order of Captain Head-Banger. Far more quickly than she'd imagined, a dozen Dwarfs appeared, dressed as deep-down knockermen for their personal protection, each wearing the wicked patent device for dispersing firedamp in deep mines.

"Please follow me" she said, leading them back to where at least two hundred dwarves were milling around the Wendigo-creatures, each trying to get a telling blow in, and as often as not impeding each other with the press of bodies and the bloodlust.

One dwarf at the back looked around and nudged another, who did a classic double-take. Very soon space opened for the new Dwarfs to spread out, six to a creature. There was deadly silence, apart from the Dopplering cry of a dwarf currently ceasing to cling precariously on to the back of a best, who from his vantage point had seen what was coming and wanted to get out of its way by the shortest possible route.

Dwarf and axe fell twenty feet, landed awkwardly, looked around dazedly for a moment, then was motioned quickly to the rear by one of the knockermen. Bjorn Pettistrop needed no further encouragement, picking up his axe, and running to Cheery, who seemed like the nearest sensible person to speak to.

She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the charnel-smell of the creature that had transferred itself to the luckless Dwarf, who looked at her, chest heaving, eyes wide with near hysteria.

"All I wanted. " he began, "All I bloody well ever wanted, right, was to find out where Grandfather buried the bloody gold…" and then he fell face forward, exhausted.

As cheery called for assistance, the lead knockerman nodded to the others, and switched his ignition on.

Within seconds, the semi-crippled Wendigo were two masses of screaming writhing flame. The threat from that quarter was over, for now.

"Fire!" said Ridcully, triumphantly, to the senior Assassin. "That's what bloody kills 'em!."

YOU BELONG DEAD. Death intoned, swinging his scythe twice.

"Fire. Of course" said the Assassin, trying hard to look wise after the event.

"Fire. Definitely." agreed his colleague. "We could use kit like that at the Guild…"

"Don't even _think _it!" Cheery said. "At least, not where Mr Vimes can get to hear!"

"Damn' shame the Guild doesn't recruit Dwarfs!" said the senior Assassin, thoughtfully. "Shoe-in for the Teatime Prize, otherwise. Most creative inhumation of a supernatural entity!"

* * *

The three Indian spirits straightened up and looked threatening.

"You dare to impede _me_, impudent human?" Misquamacus said, as Carrot looked him in the eye, or rather, the eye-holes of the mask.

"Do not kill him, great one" urged Mangas Coloradas. "This body that lodges me is of poor quality. I can feel it wearing out. That body would make a fine replacement!"

"No," said Carrot. "That was just to get your attention. I challenge you."

"You _challenge_ me, pitiful white human?" The spirit laughed, hollow, echoing, laughter within the box of the mask.

"Yes. I do. You are aware of the legend of the North Wind and the Walker?"

_It is said that not long after the Creation, the People were ensnared and held captive by the evil wiles of the North wind, a cold wicked spirit with no love for the human race. _

_One alone escaped, he who is called the Walker, the chief and champion of his people. Coming back from a far journey, the Walker found his camp desolate, the bivouacs empty, the fires cold, and the People gone. _

_It is said that the Walker deliberate long and hard, and then set off to find and confront the North Wind. Finding the evil one, the Walker then challenged him to a duel. _

"You have the right" Misquamacus conceded, studying Carrot intently. "You are indeed the Walker and champion of your people. We will fight the stick-fight."

_And the North Wind held out his hand to offer a stick to the Walker. The Walker saw it was a human femur, and refused it._

"Not that one" said Carrot.

Misquamacus shrugged.

"Very well, it will all be the same in the end."

The thigh-bone disappeared. And two five-foot lengths of sturdy wooden pole appeared, of clean wood grown and nurtured in Mother Earth.

_And they fought long and hard, and the Walker grew weary, but the North Wind remained tireless. The Walker took grievous blows and was hurt._

Carrot sank to his knees, aware of at least one broken rib. Somewhere in the silence, he heard Angua stifle a sob. He painfully got to his feet again. In this Indian sport that was and was not like quarterstaff fighting, or even Morris dancing as practiced in Lancre, there can be only one winner. Cheered on by Mangas Colarados and Geronimo, Misquamacus danced lightly forward to seek to deliver a killing blow.

_The Rain Goddess heard the plea of the Walker, and sent a storm from her great flat-headed thunderclouds, those which soar high over the mesas in the rainy season. For know ye that the North Wind has no shadow visible to human eyes. But in the flash of the lightning sent by the Goddess…_

Carrot was knocked to his knees again. He felt the first drop of rain. With the breath let to him he shouted

"Now, Otto! Now!"

And a million lightning flashes went off at once. Misquamacus and the two Indians shrieked with agony in the intense actinic light. Otto Chriek's emergency b-vord in a phial dropped to the cobblestones, where it shattered.

… _the shadow of the North Wind became visible. With his remaining strength, the Walker brought down the point of his staff and pinned the North Wind to the ground, held there by his shadow, in the power of the wood nurtured by the Earth Goddess._

And Carrot brought the pole down, end-first, onto the suddenly visible shadow, making the North Wind his prisoner.

_The North wind sued for mercy, as a young girl or a prisoner from the effete Navaho nation. And the People were freed, and the essence of the North Wind was broken and divided that he amy not walk the world again with his old strength._

Misquamacus was trapped. He felt his power draining away. Already weakened and blinded by the light, that part of him which was sustaining the spirits of the two chiefs withdrew. They screamed, and were gone from the world. The bodies they vacated appeared to twist and shrink, becoming two rather weedy middle-aged white men again.

YOU TOO BELONG DEAD. YOU WILL GO TO THE APPROPRIATE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS WHERE YOU WILL FIND IT HARD TO ESCAPE A SECOND TIME. I HAVE RESERVATIONS ABOUT LEAVING EITHER OF YOU IN THE WORLD, AND FRANKLY, SO SHOULD YOU.

This left only Misquamacus, diminished, enfeebled, unable to twist off the pole that was nailing his shadow to the earth.

"Give us Daphne Moleclencher back" said Carrot, "and we will take that in mitigation of your crimes".

NO NEED, CAPTAIN CARROT. Said Death.

"I can see you, sir? I must be more badly wounded than I thought."

NO. YOU WILL LIVE. TRUST ME ON THIS THE WIZARDS CAN SEE ME. IN THIS ENHANCED MAGICAL FIELD, A LITTLE OF IT HAS RUBBED OFF ON YOU, I THINK.

MISQUAMACUS, HOWEVER, I FIRST TOOK OVER FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AGO. HE HAS A HABIT OF RETURNING. IF IT WERE NORMAL REINCARNATION I WOULDN'T MIND, BUT HE FINDS SOME QUITE INVENTIVE WAYS OF COMING BACK.

MISQUAMACUS, YOU ARE COMING WITH ME. YOU WERE DEFEATED, I HAVE THE RIGHT.

The scythe swung. Carrot blinked. Where the Indian had been, there was a tired looking middle-aged woman.

"Mrs Cake, will you look after her? Thank you. The Patrician may yet want to speak to her, and I don't somehow think he'll require a Caroc reading."

Carrot let himself be steered by Angua towards medical attention. There was a distant cheer: two women had been found alive in the ruins of number 667 and had been dug out by Dwarfs.

Carrot smiled through his pain.

Just another day in the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. But a funeral to arrange and a report to make to Mr Vimes when he returned. Supported by Ponder Stibbons and Angua, he went to find first aid.

* * *

**(1) **And of course to conceal the knocking and table-turning mechanism she resorted to on days when the spirit world was to busy to want to communicate. Like all good psychics, she had to wing it occasionally. **(2)**

**(2) **_Really _good psychics like Mrs Cake didn't need to. Much to her dismay, as life would have been so much _easier_ if she were merely a good psychic.

**(3) **It was a femur that had formerly belonged to a Yaqui medicine man who had come second in a magical duel. Indian medicine men don't mess around**. **

**(4) **As described in Tolkein's**_ The Silmarillion_. **Of course, this tactic only works on flightless dragons...

**(5) **The Yawner is best known in American Indian history as_**Geronimo. **_In Dwarvish, _Dzj'eronimo! _means "Here we go, here we go, here we go.."


End file.
